I rolled onto my stomach, and let Fliss run her fingertips gently over her and Maureen’s handwork. “Wow,” she said again. “I have been a bad girl.”

I said, “Oh. Not really. I mean … ” And there was nothing further that I could say about that.

“Haven’t I?”

My belt was still in bed with us where I’d dropped it, when I pulled her mouth off my cock and hauled her forward, to get her cunt against my mouth. Usually I spanked her with it when she was sucking me, but this time I hadn’t. Dominance requires a certain purity of self-belief, which I had not felt, for very sound reasons.

Still, what Fliss knew was that she had not been spanked. It had been a good fuck, but it had been an egg without salt.

So I picked up the belt, and the powers, rights and duties that it implies. “Well. Now you mention it…” And Fliss slid over my lap, hard little bottom arched in mock-repentance and sexual greed.

This is the near the end of this story. If you missed earlier episodes, the jist is that I had girl-scratches all over my back that my current girlfriend, the extremely assertive submissive Fliss, hadn’t put there.

She was likely to resent these when she became aware of them. I’d managed to start having sex with her without her noticing them, but I expected exposure as a Bad Boyfriend at any second.

Now Read On

So Fliss, eyes closed, had squirmed her way deliciously down to her mammal brain. I liked that state myself when fucking. I tend to go bear-like when she goes there, carnivorous and very grunty, and not at all analytical. But I couldn’t go that way this time. I had too much to think about.

And then I smiled down at Fliss, kissed her, which she accepted, purring pleasurably, but without opening her eyes. And I brought my hands in under her back, made the best claws I could with my blunt nails, and dragged them down her back, scratching as hard as I could.

Fliss’s eyes opened wide. She grunted, “Ubf!”, tightened her thighs on mine and let fly with her nails, scrabbling and flaying at my back while she writhed determinedly beneath me. She continued shredding, my excited minx, until I felt she’d done enough.

I grabbed her hands and held them together over her head, trapped in one hand of mine, and increased our speed. And Fliss made the noise she made when she was going to come, a sort of gurgling, close to laughter but more musical, that rose and fell in cascades and made me think of fountains, and aspens.

And she came and I came, and afterwards I accepted loving words that I didn’t entirely deserve, and gave loving words that she did deserve. And later still we lay side by side, on our backs, legs and arms twined, well pleased with each other.

Eventually I got up to get us both water and wine. There was a slight gasp as I walked, naked, out of the bedroom. When I returned Fliss took her drink, and then looked contrite.

Maureen didn’t know she’d shredded my back until I turned away from her to check the time. She saw the blood on my back and on the sheet where I’d been lying. “Oh god, sorry, Jaime.”

Blood-letting commences in 3, 2, 1…

When Maureen got excited, and a well-strapped bottom followed by a hard pounding was guaranteed to achieve that, she tended to reach up and dig her nails into her lover’s back.

It seemed to be more or less instinctual; she didn’t decide to do it, and I don’t think she really knew, at a conscious level, when she was doing it.

It had been one of the things she did when I’d pushed her down into her animal brain.

I was some way into my own animal brain, because all I could see was that Maureen, contrite and sorry, was too good a thing to pass up. I growled, “Oh. So you think ‘sorry’ is good enough? Maires?”

Maires was my lover’s name for her. When we’d been a couple I hadn’t really minded her nails. It never hurt, because when I’m sexually excited I don’t seem to feel pain.

I discovered that inability to feel pain when I was 18 and a girl accidentally slid a shower door shut on my erect penis. For a tenth of a second or thereabouts I could see it about to happen, with not enough moving room or time to get out of the way. I’d been horrified. But when it hit I was astonished to find that it didn’t hurt.

When my cock was pumped hard with blood, and I was intent on following that girl who’d just left the shower, the pain seemed to come from a very little, far-away place, and to be completely irrelevant. But if I hadn’t been so turned on I’d have been dancing in agony and howling at the moon.

This is different from what submissives do. When I’d been warming up Maureen’s ass and thighs with my belt, I was certain that she felt it and that it hurt her: but she could take that pain and turn it into arousal.

And that’s why she said, “Oh. No, Jaime, I don’t think my saying sorry is enough at all.” She waited, horrified and delighted, for me to pronounce sentence.

Tied and from behind: the only safe way to fuck Maureen

The really important thing for a species is to keep reproducing, and that means that fucking should override almost everything else.

Still, I wonder if that is a Dom/sub divide; for doms, sexual arousal cancels or overrides pain, while for subs the right kind of pain builds sexual arousal.

That’s my half-arsed theory #213.

Anyway, fucking Maureen, at least in missionary position so she had access to my back, meant coming away with wounds. Overall, when I was her boyfriend I was kind of proud of the wounds on my back, because I felt that they showed how much passion I’d roused in her.

I said, “No, Maires. It’s definitely not enough. I want to see and hear that you’re sorry. Tomorrow I’m coming back. You’re to have a cane ready for me. Ok?”

“You’re going to make me wait? Can’t you cane me now?”

“I have to go now. But the waiting will do you good, Maires. Make sure you’re in the kitchen waiting for me, same time as I arrived today. Alone, naked, facing the table, holding the cane between your thighs. You’ll get at least a dozen. Whether you get a second dozen depends how well you behave.”

Hard to pass off as a motorbike accident

“Jaime!” She was wide-eyed. Whiny and thrilled, at once.

I wanted to push her down again then and there, down onto the sheet and down into her animal brain. Make her rest her feet on my arse while I rode her to the end.

But I really had run out of time. My problem was that I was due home in a bit over an hour.

I was due home because my new girlfriend, Fliss, was coming over for dinner. She expected to be fed and fucked, of course. Fucking involves nudity.

I was riding my bike back home from the university. It was a blue, moonlight evening, on a road that glistened with rain. There was something about the moonlight and water that made me think of my ex-girlfriend Maureen.

I was finishing my degree, and earning money by cleaning the Psychology block at the university. I knew more about the shit of rats in Skinner Boxes than any young man needs to know. One interesting thing, for example, is that the turds of rats who were in operant conditioning experiments involving electric shocks were slightly olive in colour, while the poo of rats that were conditioned only by rewarding them with food pellets could be dark or light, but it tended to be brown. There’s a potential thesis in that, isn’t there?

Norton Dominator. Note featherbed frame, if you can

I had a Norton motorbike at the time, an old one with what was called a featherbed frame, though in reality you still felt every bump or crack in the road, through the bike and your arse.

I’d seen the bike in a shop, and when I learned its type was Norton Dominator, I just had to buy the thing.

I should say that I’m not a motorbike guy any more, though the black leather jacket and the knee-high leather boots are still useful.

Anyway, there I was, riding the moonlit main road into the city, and thinking about how much nicer this night would be if I were riding a sleigh pulled by the Parisian Women’s Nude Iceskating Team. It’s a long ride, from the university to the city, and I often found myself passing the time in mildly lustful reverie.

Monique et Giselle, patineuses nues et Parisiennes

I started thinking about an ex-girlfriend of mine instead of the Parisian nude ice-skaters, and I decided to go and visit her.

I’ve told a story about her in this blog before. It was about the first spanking I gave, in my life, where I was bold and competent and everything had been hot and sexy and very right. I’ll call that woman Maureen in this story too.

We’d split up because we’d both done some stupid things, and she’d left me for a lawyer who played in a mildly famous rock band. At that time she was single again, but I wasn’t. I was with Felicity, a girl who called herself Fliss. She pops up in this story a little later.

I turned off the main road and took the streets that led to Maureen’s place. I suppose I just wanted to look at her and possibly hug, for my sake, and for her sake to listen sympathetically while she told me about her recent boyfriends. Mutual friends had told me that her recent guys were even less reliable, sensible and even more appalling than I’d been. A bit of sympathy was definitely called for.

I parked my bike under a tree round the back, outside her kitchen, just like I did in the days we were together. So Maureen knew it was me. She came out to welcome me, wiping something nasty off her hands with an old tea towel.

This isn’t really what Maureen was wearing, but it’s how I tend to remember her

She was wearing tight, ripped jeans and the sort of t-shirt you wear when you’re cleaning the oven. We hugged. I kissed her, but managed the hug without squeezing or smacking her arse, despite the temptations posed by those jeans. Maureen had always had the kind of body that most men like, just a bit more voluptuous than the women in women’s magazines.

I let her lead me into the house, watching her walk with nostalgic admiration. She sat me down on the couch in the living room, and went to the kitchen, coming back with wine instead of the tea I’d asked for. I moved over and she sat next to me.

I asked her about her current love life, as if I didn’t know anything about it. Her facial expression confirmed that she wasn’t having a great time, and her grunt said she didn’t want to talk about it. So we talked about our time together instead.

We laughed about pleasant times, like camping beside a river and going into the water late that night to fuck, the glade we were in made magical by the moonlight on the trees and the water. We talked about the less pleasant times too, and we forgave each other for our stupidities, selfishnesses and lies. And so we kissed. The kisses were for, oh, friendship and affection’s sake.

Then we kissed some more, with more intensity, and we shared breaths, and Maureen undid buttons on my shirt so she could stroke my back.

It was only about an hour from when I’d parked my bike when I got off the couch to help Maureen off with her t-shirt, jeans and panties. That was all she was wearing. It was a warm evening and she hadn’t expected company. Anyway, she knew she looked good.

When her jeans and panties were round her ankles I put one foot on the gusset and pushed her feet down to the floor. When she lifted her legs again she was naked.

She wrapped those legs round my waist, so I couldn’t get away, and when I straightened up she came up with me, a nice firm limpet with her breasts pressed against my chest and her arms and legs around me, holding tight.

Happy to be, madam, your beast of burden. (In a domly sort of way)

I walked her, to keep my balance, until I pushed her back against the wall. She laughed at me. That laugh used to disconcert me a little, when we were first together, but I’d learned that it just meant she was happy.

I was thinking we were about to have one of those stunt fucks, where we’d adjust out position a little so that my cock, currently bouncing up against her buttocks, could slip home into her, and I’d march us round the room while she bounced on my cock until she came or I was exhausted. Whichever happened first.

I’m keeping to four posts a week, at the moment. I looked back a couple of years, back in this blog, and found I was doing seven posts a week.

They tended to be shorter, because I’d write something, get carried away as I always do, and it would turn out longer than I’d expected. So I’d chop it into two or three parts, and run them on three successive days.

But now I’m writing a novel, and I’m keeping at it because I want to finish it soon. There are five parts, and the final part is expected to be relatively short. I’m on Part 5 now, and I can smell the finish line. I feel triumphant!

I’d like to do more discussion pieces, think pieces, for this blog.

But at the moment I can’t think of anything but Rome and a rich Scots girl, who paints but seems only able to sell her art to men who fancy her, and how she breaks through to a wider audience. I can’t afford to do any thinking except about how to make that sexier and funnier.

I just wrote a scene (for Part 4) in which the hero fetches his beautiful but mildly drunk girlfriend out of Trevi Fountain. It adds absolutely nothing to the plot, I think, but it belongs in the book just the same.

In honour of that scene, here are some photos of girls in Roman fountains.

The top two are from a news story that said Romans were “outraged” to find pretty underdressed girls in a fountain. Bullshit, I have to say. Possibly a couple of lemon-sucking Romans somewhere went all crinkly-mouthed about it, but Romans in general are overwhelmingly pro-pretty girl.They even seem to like underdressed, wet girls. Go figure.

Don’t let the Murdoch press (or Dacre press in this instance) tell you otherwise. In fact, don’t let them tell you anything.

They’re as eccentric a line-up, in their various ways, as the Medieval Catholic saints.

Marie Bonaparte for example, great grandniece of the Emperor Napoleon, had such faith in the doctrine of female masochism that she “discovered” the masochistic ovum.

She believed that because eggs are female and they are beaten by the head of the penis during intercourse – Bam! Bam! Bam! – they come to enjoy that pounding. This, she concluded, is the cause of the essential masochism of women. As a Freudian true believer, Bonaparte had to believe in the essential masochism of women.

Clitoris, getting the hell out of Marie Bonaparte’s way.

In one of the more amazing demonstrations of faith that any disciple has ever given a cult leader, Bonaparte had her clitoris surgically relocated closer to her vaginal entrance, so that she complied with Freud’s directives on the superiority of vaginal orgasms.

She needed another operation later, to fix the mess made by the first operation. Her Freudian wound never healed.[i]

Sorry. It’s been a while since I posted. I’ve had a hole bored in my jawbone and a steel pin inserted into the hole. I’ll get a crown some time in December.

That was on Tuesday. The rest of Tuesday was a write-off, and so, surprisingly, was Wednesday as well. Probably because of the pain-killers more than the pain.

I was a bit more battered than I thought I was. Battered like an old car, not like a fish. Or a battery. I was the batter-ee.

Now I’m still trickling the odd bit of blood, and I’m guessing that the floor of an abatoir must taste a lot like the inside of my mouth.

But I’m feeling a lot better. Thanks!

My main memory of the whole thing was the hair, hands, mouth and breasts of the dental assistant who was using one of those slurping machines to suck out the blood and bits of bone. I suppose it’s natural to focus on the best life has to offer, at a time when most of the incoming sensory information is (literally) bloody horrible.

Maybe the reason why dentists tend to have pretty girls as assistants is so that patients, at least those who are susceptible to pretty girls, have something to distract them from the gory goings-on in their mouths.

And male dentists also like to have a pretty girl about the place, since the inside of someone’s mouth, when that person needs dental treatment, ain’t that pretty at all.

I’ve been to two women dentists, by the way, and neither of them had dental nurses. So dentistry, like political assassinations, can be done by one person acting alone.

I know that dental nursing is a skilled job, and it shouldn’t be turned into a wank fantasy.

It is required by law that this picture be captioned, “Open wide.” (I fought that law, but the law won.)

But the people who get that job tend to be young, pretty and female, which isn’t entirely fair on job-seekers who aren’t. That’s not the fault of the pretty young women; it’s more the fault of, oh, you know, patriarchy.

In some ways it’s odd that dental fetish is such a strong theme in porn. I guess it’s the hint of bondage in the chair, though the patient is held in place by the situation, not by actual bonds. There’s the appealing contrast between the angular sterility of the room, and the curved, not-sterile human body. Cold colors against warm skin, and so on. And, of course, the dentist commands and the patient obeys.

For me, no matter how charming I might think I am, I know that dental assistant has seen the inside of my mouth at its bloodiest and worst. That’s got to be a profoundly repellant sight.

There must be guys who spring out of the chair once they’ve got the all-clear, flashing their most brilliant smile at the nurse and trying to engage her in witty, flirtatious conversation. But me: Nah. Just … no.

This got discussed a bit in the comments, and because people often don’t read comments, I’m going to re-shape what I said, and put it up here.

Released into the wild

The words and images we make have one set of meanings to ourselves, as their makers, but once we release them into the wild they become anybody’s, to interpret as they want.

Readers: you know who you are

I suppose people could read something like the Raylene saga and conclude that I’m too cruel and vicious by half, as doms go, or they could decide that I spend far too much time fretting about what’s ok to do, and so I’m too soft and conciliatory as doms go. Or both.

I think I’m telling the story of a dom who tries to do the right thing, and who tries to tell the truth about what that’s like and what it involves. There’s stuff about the pleasures of being a bit cruel, in the Raylene saga, but there’s also stuff about love, self-doubt, and, as far I can know them as a dom, the pleasures of surrender. But it would be easy to quote this blog accurately though selectively, and make me sound, well, anything, good or bad, as desired.

And that’s only the people who don’t disapprove of male doms as such. Most people wouldn’t get far past a sentence like, “I brought the cane down across her ass,” before deciding this Jaime fellow is a blot on the landscape’s fine silk tie.

But that’s talking mostly about deliberate or ideological misreadings. There’s also chance. I think that the word I’m most likely accidently to leave out of a sentence is the word “not”. So that I might be stuck with having posted some abomination like, “No matter how horny they might be feeling, men should try to talk to women wearing headphones.” At least until I re-read the post and go into an editing frenzy, three letters long.

Or, more importantly, someone can read something I wrote and see the unconscious and unexamined bias or prejudice I left in it, and read it against the grain of what I thought I was saying. That is, readers can get things right, about my own writing, that I missed.

The eyes of the beholders (image by Rene Magritte)

Certainly, if I were running for office (“Vote Jerusalem Mortimer, or I’ll have you in irons! Or, at least, nipple clamps!”) and someone found my blog, that’d be the death of my campaign right there. My words would be hostages.

But I’m not really whinging about how words and images slip further out of our grasp than we expect when we release them. So they should. Live, little pixels! Be free!

Words and images finish up in the eye of the beholder, and we who make them just have to accept it.

Someone just wrote me saying that last night they dreamed I was tying their wrists together before tying them to the bed-end. They said it was a good dream, so that was a nice thing for me to think about.

I’ve had a similar dream about her, but I used leather cuffs rather than rope.

She’s dropping by. “Dropping by” makes it sound a bit more casual than it is. It’s the sort of “dropping by” you have to pack for.

And she brings new experiences, which is to say, herself.

Obviously it won’t be the first time I’ve done that small bit of bondage in general, but it will be the first time I will have done it with that woman. Like Prometheus, she’s been more or less unbound. Till now. Or till soon, anyway.

So it will be exploration: a completely new experience. You don’t have to leave home for them. Which is lucky because I’ve been to so many new places, including 200 miles above the Arctic Circle, in my travels. Now I’m back in my bit of the world I’d hate for the Shock of the New to stop coming.

The gag reference was only there for the feeble pun. But it’s funny how a casual idea, that only crossed my mind for the silliest possible reason, solidifies into a project.

So I shall explore that – with her – too. She’s a vocal girl, and what she has to say is always interesting. So she’ll find silence hard. I suppose she’ll find me hard in her silence.

I think we’ll both be happy. Happiness is simple.

In the four weeks I’ve been away from home, a tree has blown down so I’ve got plenty of firewood. The lawn hasn’t grown (winter) so that’s good. Six new book cases were delivered this morning, so I’ve got my work cut out getting them into place without making the place seem crammed. And I have to get organised for that wonder-girl’s arrival.

And once I’ve got myself organised, I can continue with the Raylene story. The episodes can appear while I’m too busy to write.

I’m back from a Russian restaurant (of course it’s a Russian restaurant; I mean Russian in the sense that it serves Russian food). It was a game restaurant, where neither the proprietor nor his son spoke more than a couple of words in English. There were guns, crossbows and animal pelts and mounted heads all over the walls.

A vegetarian’s nightmare. I ate bear, and elk.

I gained the admiration of the proprietor by asking about the pelts on the wall. Since we had no words in common, I finished up by pointing at something I thought was a dead wolf, or what a dead wolf used to wear, and asking, “Ah-hoooo?”

And so on, through to bear noises. And my version of a civet cat was, essentially, “miaoww?” to establish the genus, then doing it again in a deep voice.

Anyway, as a consequence, though I arrived at nine and was still there at midnight, their sole customer, they brought out “samples” of their vodka collection.

They were home-made vodkas, with various things steeped in each one. For example, cedar, birch, ginger, horseradish, some red berry, peppery-sweet, and one other. The proprietor said, “Taste!”

They weren’t “tastes”; they were double shots. I managed heroically, except for the horse-radish vodka, which defeated me.

So now I’ve had an encounter with “the Russian soul.” We agreed on things like, “Russia good”, and “Australia good”, and other important matters.

Neither of those propositions is true, by the way. Russia is transitioning into a theocratic fascist state, and Australia has just voted in a bunch of red-necked racists who run off-shore concentration camps where refugees are kept, subject to being raped or murdered, until they go mad. Then they’re kept on in captivity anyway. But we couldn’t manage nuance.

I got home. On the way a beautiful girl nearly ran me over with a horse. Oddly enough, that really did happen. You can hire horses in St Petersburg, even after dinner. She may have taken on more vodka than me.

The evening was good, because I started today not much liking Russia or its culture, because of the relentless nightmare of Immigration: two hours in a concrete bunker while nothing happens. Now I’ve changed my mind. Russians are cool!

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